


Magic Always Has Consequences

by thereigatesquire



Category: Onward (2020)
Genre: Gen, Hostage Situations, Intimidation, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23290375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereigatesquire/pseuds/thereigatesquire
Summary: Barley had told Ian magic had consequences. Unfortunately, neither of them had anticipated the more political side effects that introducing magic into the world would cause. As the debate surrounding magic grows, the Lightfoots' lives become more and more precarious.
Relationships: Barley Lightfoot & Ian Lightfoot
Comments: 23
Kudos: 183





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The other day I saw an interesting concept somewhere (I think TV Tropes?) regarding the aftereffects of introducing magic into the world at the conclusion of Onward. Would the creatures embrace it? Would there be political turmoil? This is one of the ways I think it could have went down. Enjoy!

Magic had been on the rise ever since Barley and Ian’s grand quest, which had of course been heavily publicized. Between Ian’s amazing feat of restoring the school and Barley’s flat out enthusiasm for magic in general, the media had plenty of coverage of the Lightfoot brothers to spread across the entire realm. The Lightfoots received lots of mail, slowly at first, and then more and more, from creatures everywhere detailing the difference reconnecting to their roots had made. One siren had rediscovered her singing voice and accidentally crashed a freighting ship. A satyr had found some pan pipes and lured all of the rats out of his restaurant with music. A genie had even managed to grant a single wish. No one, however, had reported wizarding abilities, which Barley (for Ian’s sake) was eagerly awaiting.

Barley had heard of Ian’s newfound (relative) popularity at school, and he viewed a new kind of confidence in him at home. He was the same elf --Barley knew he’d never completely get over his social awkwardness-- but he smiled more and talked with a bit more purpose. It was really less of a change and more of a becoming, an evolving into the potential Barley knew Ian had inside of him. Just thinking about his little brother’s personal growth filled him with a lasting, warm joy.  
\---  
Ian made sure not to tell Barley of the more negative side effects his magic had brought on. From his classmates who simply pestered him to do “tricks” while he was trying to study, to the more straight-out antagonistic types who were either scared or jealous of his abilities, certainly magic was a two-sided coin. He wasn’t bullied, per se (though there was one memorable time a resentful goblin had thrown a punch right to his eye and he’d had to make up some lame story of running into a fire extinguisher to dispel his brother’s suspicions); the majority of the school actually liked him. It was just he could now feel some dark clouds of malefaction where there had previously been none. To possibly ease some creatures’ concern, Ian had set a strict moral code for himself to never use magic on another being, unless someone was in life-threatening danger. This was hard to follow when the troll in his first block class purposely tripped him and laughed uglily, or when he saw the hostile goblin approaching threateningly after school, but he managed. He was obviously grateful both for magic and the good it seemed to be doing in so many lives, but sometimes he wished he could go back to being virtually anonymous; he didn’t do well with so much attention.

\-------------------------------------

Magic slowly grew more and more known, and creatures awakened long-suppressed instincts within them. Not all of the progress was good, however. Barley slowly became aware of a new type of mail arriving at the Lightfoot residence. Some creatures, individually and as formed groups, seemed to be opposed to the unfamiliar changes taking place. Barley could understand where they were coming from, but the letters were often hostile and rather threatening. He gathered them up and disposed of them before Ian could see. Once, Barley came home to see two of Guinevere the II’s tires slashed (luckily he had lots of extras in the backyard). It all made him feel uneasy, like a storm brewing on a distant horizon…

One day, Ian came home in a poorer mood than normal. Laurel was at work, so it was Barley who greeted him as he came in the front door. Ian tried to nonchalantly slide past him to reach the stairs, but something on his face must have betrayed him, and Barley stopped him.  
“What’s troubling you, young mage?” he asked.  
Ian wasn’t in the mood for any theatrics. “Nothing, it’s nothing,” he mumbled, edging his way to the staircase. Barley stopped him with an announcement of “Ye shall not pass,” but as he good-naturedly grabbed Ian’s shoulder to stop him, Ian winced and gasped. Barley removed his hand as quickly as if he’d burned it.  
Ian knew there was no ignoring Barley now. “I just, uh, pulled my arm, you know? Throwing a baseball?”  
Barley’s eyes narrowed. “No offense, bro, but you I know you absolutely hate baseball. I’m not buying it.” Speaking a bit softer, he added, “I’m gonna have to take a look at that shoulder, Ian.” He led him into the kitchen.  
Ian braced himself as he followed. He’d known Barley was bound to find out sooner or later, but he was still concerned how Barley would react. Ian hopped up and took a seat on the kitchen counter as Barley watched him troubledly. After a silent staring contest, Ian sighed and unbuttoned the top of his flannel, sliding it down over the shoulder in question.  
\---  
Barley stifled his gasp and instead said, “Oh, that doesn’t look too bad. I’ll just retrieve ye a mighty cooling pack!” though internally, his mind was racing. The side of Ian’s bony shoulder bore clear marks of a pair of knuckles, the result of a forceful punch. He guessed what it was about, too. As he wrapped an ice pack in a cloth and handed it to Ian, he asked carefully, “Does this have to do with magic?”  
Ian sighed and responded, “Yeah. You know how some guys are. They’re just scared, or I guess jealous.” He hopped off the counter with a huff, holding the ice pack to his shoulder. “Ugh, it’s all just so-- so… I don’t even know. I just wish people didn’t treat me so differently now.”  
Barley nodded with understanding. He wasn’t in high school, and he didn’t mind talking to people as much as Ian did, but he still got irritated when people treated him as something other than just Barley. “Do you need help with whomever did this?”  
“No,” Ian replied. “I actually told a teacher today about what happened.”  
“Ah, well good for you, brave warrior!” Barley cried, about to slap Ian on the back before catching himself. “For real though, that takes guts.”  
“Thanks,” Ian said, smiling sheepishly.  
Barley was once again filled with a heartfelt glow as he watched his strong baby brother shuffle out of the kitchen. He hoped his troubles would lessen from here on out.

\---------------------------------------

The national debate grew into more and more of a firestorm as time wore on. Proponents for magic were showcasing the improved lives of those who had rediscovered their roots, while those against were pointing out injuries and asking why the world should return to antiquity. A few other spell-casters had emerged at this point, but none on Ian’s level, who was growing stronger day by day thanks to Barley’s continued teaching. Reporters came and went, all wanting to interview the “Redeemers of History” or the “Backwards Brothers” (depending on their viewpoint), which was very bothersome. Both Ian and Barley Lightfoot, but Ian especially, became household names all across the realm.

Barley could tell Ian wasn’t handling it well. He’d always been a nervous child, and the anxiety weighed on him. He had trouble sleeping, and didn’t seem to eat much at all. Barley even considered talking to his mother about moving, when one day, Ian didn’t come back home. When he failed to arrive at his usual time, Barley wasn’t initially concerned. Ian occasionally visited friends after school, or missed the bus, and forgot to text. When 4 o’clock progressed to 6 o’clock, 7 o’clock, 8 o’clock with no word, Barley and Laurel’s concern increased.  
“Barley, you’re sure Ian didn’t say anything to you this morning about any evening activities?” Laurel asked for the third time.  
“Yes, I’m sure!” Barley snapped, before apologizing. “I’m sorry mom, it’s just-- I’m worried, you know? The past few months have been rough on him, and--”  
“I know, I know,” his mom sighed. 8’clock struck and she opened her phone. “That does it. I’m calling Colt.”  
After a lengthy, tense conversation, she hung up. “He’s sending two patrol cars out to look around. He recommended you and I help too.”  
They quickly grabbed their keys and hurried out the door. As Laurel backed out of the driveway, she called to Barley. “I’ll search around the school, you take the park and expressway.”

Barley drove quickly to the nearby town park. After circling around many times and seeing nothing, he felt Guinevere the II splutter, then turn off and roll to a stop. He had run out of gas. “No, no! Not now!” Frantically considering his actions (as he had no gas can in the back), he decided it was faster to run home and grab the extra gas cans he kept in the garage. He flew home in a furious run.  
As Barley neared the house, he saw a piece of paper poking out of the mailbox slightly. He didn’t know if it had been there when they left; he’d been in such a rush. He yanked it out and began to read quickly.

"Lightfoot family:  
We know you’re the cause of all of this turmoil. You all just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? And now look at all the trouble you’ve caused. Magic is dangerous. Different is dangerous. Change is dangerous. But no matter. We’ve got your Iandore and we’ll make him see the truth. Until he does, don’t bother looking for him.  
Semper eadem  
Signed, CAM (Creatures Against Magic)"

Ian. Someone had Ian. Barley slumped to the curb, head in hands. His worst fear had been made real. He almost let the paper blow away in distracted devastation, but he managed to snag it, and took another look. Some crackpot organization had kidnapped his baby brother! The wording of the letter just screamed insanity. He pulled out his phone and quickly dialed his mom, heart beating frantically with distress and worry. As it rang, he noticed something on the paper. An odd, yellow mark on the top left corner. He raised it up right in front of his tear-filled eyes. It was some kind of watermarked symbol. As soon as his mother picked up with a breathless “Did you find him?”, Barley made out the shape. It was a small yellow griffin, facing to the left.

\----------------------------

Ian had had a considerably better day at school than the day prior. The teacher he had talked to about the bullying (his science teacher, Ms. Gallagher), had discreetly come up to him after class and told him she’d handled the situation, and that the students weren’t going to bother him anymore. He’d chatted with his science group friends at lunch, got an A on his math test, and even impressed his orchestra teacher with his progress on the violin piece he’d been practicing. Due to the nice weather and his cheerful disposition, Ian decided to walk home when school let out. That was his first mistake. He waved goodbye to some friends on the steps, and headed west towards his house, using his staff as a walking stick. It was a rather long walk that took him by some old lots and underdeveloped field spaces, but he didn’t mind; he really felt quite content with how things were going in his life at the moment. As he passed one of these lonesome areas, an old van pulled up alongside him, and stopped. Confused and watchful, but not exactly concerned, he watched as one of the front windows rolled down, revealing an old, crusty-eyed cyclops.  
“Are you Ian Lightfoot?” the cyclops asked in a gravelly, rather unpleasant voice.  
“Uh, yes,” Ian stammered. That was his second mistake.  
“Ah, good!” the cyclops cried, but not in a pleasant way. “We’ve been looking for you. Could you give us an interview?”  
“This is a news van?” Ian asked incredulously. The old, beige-ish automobile in front of him was about as far from a news van as Guinivere the II was.  
Something dark, like irritation, flitted across the cyclops features before they responded. “Of course, we’re the local team for the town over, a little place called Willowdale?”  
“Oh, there’s a college there, right? My dad went there.”  
The cyclops didn’t look very interested. “Yeah, there’s a college. Come over here, my recording equipment is in the back.”  
Ian had learned about stranger danger, but the talk of his dad’s college had put him falsely at ease, and he walked to the back of the van as the cyclops got out to meet him. That was his third mistake.  
The cyclops opened the doors for him. It was entirely dark inside.  
“This doesn’t look like a news van,” Ian remarked uncertainly, turning to look at the cyclops. The cyclops’s expression had transformed entirely into a mask of pure disgust and malice. As soon as this registered in Ian’s mind, the cyclops reached out and shoved him backwards into the van, slamming the doors behind him. Ian, staff still in hand, tried to stand up, but he felt a couple of pairs of hands grab him and hold him down. He started to shout for help, but some fabric was shoved in his mouth and tied there. Gagging, he tried to wrestle his arms and legs away from his invisible assailants, but he couldn’t, and they were quickly bound in rope. He could feel the van start to drive.  
“Wow, he’s even scrawnier than he looked on the news channel,” said one low voice.  
“Do y’all think anyone saw us?” asked a second, higher, nasally voice.  
“Nah, that was a pretty deserted area,” a third, raspy voice responded. The voice laughed as Ian received a swift kick to the side. “This one here did us a favor.”  
Ian lay there on the van’s floor completely terrified, trying to take in what was happening. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out three shadowy shapes --one large, one short, and one thin-- sitting on benches on either side of him.  
“I’m starvin’,” voice #1 rumbled a few minutes later.  
“Shuddup!” voice #2 shot back angrily.  
Voice #3 joined in. “We’re not supposed to talk with this one here.” Ian received another quick kick to the side.

They rode in silence to who-knows-where. Ian had no way of checking the time --his hands bound behind his back and all-- and the panic-fueled waves of adrenaline coursing through him didn't help his internal sense of time. After what felt like at least an hour, he felt the van roll to a stop. One of the shadowy shapes leaned over him and tied a rough cloth around his eyes. Ian could smell his awful, sour breath. Completely blind and helpless now, he gasped (or tried to) as one of the goons lifted him up and roughly flung him over their shoulder. They entered a building and Ian could hear them descending a metal stairway. They took a few turns and went through a few doors that Ian couldn’t keep track of, until finally he was flung down onto a hard concrete floor. Ian winced as his blindfold was yanked off.  
“Hold him up!” the cyclops ordered.  
Ian had a good view of his aggressors now. There were four: the cyclops van driver, a massive stone troll, a brightly colored hobgoblin, and a tall, dead-looking tree sprite. The troll held him up as the tree sprite reached one twiggy hand around him and took his phone from his back pocket, then snatched the watch from his wrist. “Do you know why you’re here?” she rasped.  
Ian shook his head, trembling.  
“I’ll tell ‘im!” the hobgoblin piped up. “It’s ‘cause you’re a nasty instigator and you wanna ruin our perfectly fine way of life!”  
Ian shook his again, more forcefully. That wasn’t true! He’d heard similar things on a couple of the news channels and from some of the kids at school, and it filled him with a deep indignation every time. He didn’t want to alter anything; he just wanted to share some of the good things magic could do.  
“Are you disagreeing with me?” the hobgoblin spat, standing on tiptoes to get as close to Ian’s as she could. She reared back and drove one bony knee right into Ian’s quadricep. If he hadn’t been held up, he would have fallen over from the pain of it.  
“Stop it!” the cyclops shouted. “We just want him to see reason. We don’t want to damage him,” He gave a signal to the troll holding Ian up, and he let go, letting Ian fall to the ground still bound. As they filed out the door, the cyclops turned back to look maliciously at Ian. “Yet.”

\-------------------------------------

Barley sat at the kitchen table, studying the very familiar griffin symbol, when his mother pulled up to the house and dashed inside. Barley held up the note.”This logo looks so familiar, but I can’t-”  
His mother silenced him with a raised hand and took one brief glance at the paper. “Barley, that’s the Willowdale mascot. The material kind of looks like stationary from the college. You don’t think…” she paused, glancing up at her eldest son with a mix of hope and concern.  
“...he could be at the college?” Barley finished for her. “It’s worth a shot.”  
They both raced out the door and hopped into Guinevere the II. Laurel called Officer Bronco as Barley fired up the van, and they raced towards Willowdale.  
Barley had read his mother the note over the phone, but now in person he could see how it had affected her. There was a panicked, desperate look in her eyes. He drove faster.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the finale, enjoy!

Ian had time to take a look around the room he was trapped in. It was some kind of old, though brightly lit, workroom, with rusty steel tables and empty racks of shelves. There was one weird, exposed toilet in the corner that looked like it didn't work. Ian had wormed his way to a sitting position, and he leaned against one of the walls as he surveyed his options. There didn’t seem to be any. There were no windows, one door, and one tiny air vent up on the moldy ceiling, along with a lone iron hook beside it. His leg throbbed and the muscles seized up oddly. He roughly rubbed the fabric that bound his mouth against his shoulder until it finally came off and he could breathe again. He tried for a while to get his hands and feet untied, but he wasn’t successful, and he didn’t see anything sharp, not even an exposed nail, he could cut the ropes on.  
With no phone, no watch, and no windows, he had no way of marking the passage of time. He was thirsty and terrified, with his anxiety levels through the roof, when he finally heard noise coming from outside the door. He flinched as it flew open suddenly with a bang! In stepped the cyclops and the massive troll.  
The cyclops smirked, eyeing Ian’s frightened but confused expression as he towered over him. “You don’t even know why you’re here, do you?”  
Ian, afraid to say something wrong, remained silent.  
The cyclops’ smirk evolved into an angry scowl. With a harsh sound and sudden motion, he grabbed the front of Ian’s collar and hoisted him violently upward, until his feet were no longer touching the floor. “Answer me, you worthless rat!” the cyclops spat in his face.  
Shaking with fear, Ian managed to eek out a no.  
“I thought so,” the cyclops glowered. He threw him viciously back down to the ground. “I’ll tell you. Our organization, we call ourselves the CAM, Creatures Against Magic. And you, sir,” he added sarcastically, “are our number one enemy right now. You’ve been all over the news, and for some reason, all the other creatures seem to think you’re some wonderful trendsetter that they should all copy. But you’re not!” He was now shouting right in Ian’s face. “You’re just a meddling kid who’s ruining the world as we know it! Was the realm unhappy?! No! So why are you causing so much trouble?”  
This last question seemed to not be rhetorical. Ian spoke as softly as he could. “I-I’m really not trying to cause trouble. I-I just don’t think magic is so bad. It’s helped so many--” He was cut off as the cyclops whacked him across the face. He had been bracing himself, so it wasn’t unexpected, but it was still very painful.  
“Shut up! You can’t convince me that magic is good! I know the old stories, I know why we stopped using it in the first place. Besides, we have technology now. There’s no need for magic!” He paused in his ranting and smiled a twisted smile. “You’re going to do something for us. The local radio station is just across town. You’re going to agree to go over there, renounce magic, and tell everyone not to use it anymore. They’ll listen to you, since you started this whole mess.” He was still sneering an awful smile. “Oh, and you’ll never use magic again, okay?”  
Ian, head throbbing, was confused. He made his voice as brave as he could and asked, “And why should I agree to this? I mean, magic really has helped--” Again, he was cut off by another hit to the head.  
“That’s why. Also, if you don’t agree to call off this whole thing within four days...” the cyclops chuckled darkly, “Then we’ll just get rid of you and hope this movement kills itself off.” He and the troll thundered out of the room, slamming the door behind them.  
Ian was left alone, terrified, still tied up. And he had no idea what to do.

\----------------------------------------

Barley and Laurel Lightfoot got to the town of Willowdale in an hour, despite it normally taking two. Unfortunately, the college was on break, leaving the town almost completely abandoned. Many stores were shuttered, and as they cruised quickly past the darkened buildings, they saw only a handful of cars and residents. They stopped and asked the few beings they saw if anyone had noticed a young elf, or anything out of the ordinary, but they all said they hadn’t and hurriedly shuffled away.  
It was another hour before Officer Bronco arrived with five police cars in tow. They spent the entire night canvassing the eastern half of the town, but nobody had seen anything.

“Why don’t we search inside the college?” Barley had asked Colt at one point.  
Colt sighed. “First of all, the college is closed and no one’s inside. Second of all, the college is massive.” He gestured to the entire western half of the town. It was covered with stone grey buildings, all part of Willowdale College’s campus. “And third of all, the college encourages local businesses to use its paper as some kind of promotional thing, so a lot of other places around here have that stationary.” Colt looked at Barley’s dejected face. “But hey, don’t worry. I want to get him back more than anything. So we’re all working hard for once, instead of hardly working.” He gave a half-smile, gently shouldered Barley, and trotted away to give orders.  
Barley watched him leave, frustrated beyond words. He had no qualms against going off on his own to look for Ian without waiting for the police, but he had no idea where to start, so he stayed with Bronco.  
He saw his mom across the street, sitting on the curb with her head in her hands, while the blue lights of the police cars pulsated across her. He walked over and sat beside her.  
“Are you okay, mom?” he asked quietly.  
“No, not at all,” she replied, miserably.  
“That was a stupid question, I’m sorry.” He looked out into the dark night sky; there were very few stars. He sighed very softly. “I’m really scared.”  
Laurel lifted her head. Tears had tracked their way down her cheeks. She reached both arms around her son and rested her head on the top of his, before saying, “Me too,” in an equally soft tone.  
They stayed that way for a while, before helping the officers continue their search.

\--------------------------------------------

They started by trying to starve Ian into eschewing magic. He was given no food or water, and though he had no accurate way of keeping time, he estimated it’d been a full 24 hours since he’d drunk anything. He knew the science. He could survive for at least a week without food, probably more since he didn’t really eat much normally, but water was a different story. He couldn’t last a week without water, and worse, they’d turned on heat or something in his basement prison. It was really very hot, and he still had on his flannel and jeans, but he was determined to push through whatever they threw at him. He knew that magic was a good thing. He’d seen the news; he’d received letters from grateful creatures all across the realm; he trusted his father. He wouldn’t give in. But it was really, very, decidedly hot. He hoped someone would come find him soon.

\------------------------------------------

They started searching the college next. It had been a full 24 hours since Barley had found the note, and there was no sign of Ian anywhere. No townspeople had seen anything out of the ordinary. They had a warrant by this time, and a tired old janitor went with Barley, Laurel, Bronco, and the other officers to unlock each room of the empty college while they searched. They each took turns sleeping, except for Barley, who wouldn’t --couldn’t-- rest until his little brother was found. It took them another solid 24 hours to search the dorms and public spaces, and yet no progress felt like it was being made.

\-------------------------------------------

Ian felt very weak at the end of 48 hours. The heat had caused him to sweat completely through his shirt, and he’d had no way of replenishing that lost fluid. But 48 hours was trying his kidnappers’ patience. Two of them, the hobgoblin and the troll, came into the room.  
“Ya give up yet, varmit?” the hobgoblin spat.  
Ian shook his head no.  
“Boss didn’t think so. So he said I could do this!” She cackled as she held up a black, wicked looking whip. The troll came behind Ian and lifted him up. He tied another rope around his already-bound wrists and attached it to the hook in the ceiling. Ian could barely touch the ground. The troll then somehow ripped open the back of his shirt and twisted him until his back faced the vile hobgoblin. As she unfurled the whip and reared back, Ian closed his eyes, and she began.

\-----------------------------------------

The officers did a quick search of the private areas of the college: the dean’s offices, the apartments, the kitchens. There was no evidence. Officer Bronco approached Laurel.  
“Hey, uh, Laurel?” he said carefully. “We-we think we might head back to New Mushroomton and look for more evidence there, since we haven’t found anything here in Willowdale.” He grimaced, awaiting her response. Understandably, she’d been rather volatile, and he didn’t know how she’d take his news.  
She just nodded silently, shoulder slumped. “I mean, that makes sense. We haven’t found anything.” She turned away. “I just -- I thought he would be here!” She started to cry, hard. Colt, feeling uncomfortable but also wanting to help, pulled a handkerchief out of one of his uniform pockets and handed it to her, while also gently putting an arm around her. Her sobs lessened but didn’t die away completely.  
She continued to cry as she and Barley watched the officers slowly load up and drive off.

\-----------------------------------------

Ian blinked awake slowly, confused for a moment as to where he was. Then, he felt the pain come crashing in, and he almost started to cry again, both from the pain itself and from remembering where he was. He was still dangling from his wrists, and his arms felt like they’d been pulled from their sockets, but much worse was the pain coming from his back. It was a biting, unbearable, stinging pain and an aching, bone-deep pain all at once. He had no idea how much time had passed. Had he been down here for two and a half days? Three days? A lifetime? He needed water. It didn’t even feel like he had a back anymore, really: just ribbons. He passed in and out of consciousness from the dehydration and blood loss. It occurred somewhere in the back of his mind that maybe they weren’t planning to kill him at the end of four days; maybe he’d just die from all of this instead. He wished --prayed-- that Barley or his mom or anyone would find him, but it was looking less and less likely.

\----------------------------------------

Barley and his mom spent one more day searching Willowdale for the youngest Lightfoot. It was not a quest, it was not a hunt, it was just a life-or-death search that pushed them to their absolute limit. It had almost been four full days since Ian had disappeared.  
Barley was the first to call it off. ”Mom,” he said, shouting over to where she was busy looking through empty restaurants’ windows. “Mom, do you think we should head back, too?”  
She started to protest, before realizing that Barley was probably right. He could see her physically sag inward with despair -- an implosion of grief. They trudged over, exhausted, to Geneviere the II, but as they loaded in, they saw an old, grimy van blaze down the street, in the direction of the shoreline. After a brief moment of confusion, they glanced at each other, and then shot down the road behind it.

\---------------------------------------

The shoreline in Willowdale was not a pleasant gradient down to an aquamarine ocean. Instead, it was a cliff of awful height and sheerness that plummeted down to a tumultuous, furious ocean that raged against dagger-like rocks. It was here that Ian’s kidnappers brought him for their final, terrible act.  
A rough hand yanked him up from the back of the van where he had been lying. He was barely, precariously conscious, and even though they’d removed his bonds, he was too weak to take advantage of this fact. Ian sensed more than saw their inevitable approach to the cliff’s edge. The hand thrust and held him right on the knife’s edge of the cliff, and a voice (the cyclops? the tree sprite? he couldn’t tell; he was too far gone at this point) hissed into his ear. “Last chance, freak. You want to tell the world the truth? That magic is wrong? Or are you gonna die for your foolhardy stupidity?”  
Ian didn’t respond; he couldn’t--he wasn’t even really lucid. It was more a fault in his kidnappers’ plan than anything. He may have even considered their offer, as he didn’t want to die, but as it was, he wasn’t really capable of higher-level thought. He was only aware of his searing, flaming back, and a pervading, all-consuming ache and frailty. In his disconnected, malfunctioning mind, he assumed it was death. He probably wasn’t far off.  
The voice mistook his silence for defiance. “If you insist,” it chuckled darkly. Ian didn’t register it. He did, however, hear his brother’s voice.  
“Ian!” Barley called. Ian didn’t acknowledge it. He’d been imagining his brother’s voice for the past 24 hours. He was conscious enough, though, to feel the hand yank him back slightly from the edge and to sense all of his persecutors whirl around to stare at something behind him. He turned his head. There, not fifty yards away, was his brother and mother, in the flesh, sprinting towards him. Barley was trying to say something to him; Ian couldn’t process it. When a large object came flying towards him, it was by pure, survivalistic instinct that he reached out a single hand and grabbed it. It was his staff.

\--------------------------------------

Barley had driven like the devil. He’d lost the van at one point, but spotted it just a minute later stopped at the cliffside. He’d furtively parked behind some old shed about fifty yards away, and he and his mother got out to scope what was occurring. It was horrifying. He saw an old cyclops get out of the driver’s side of the van and open the back. Out came a massive troll, a twisted tree sprite, and a wrinkled hobgoblin, all emerging like dark creatures from a cave. Then, the cyclops reached one arm into the van and removed...something? Barley squinted, then stifled his gasp, for he realized it was Ian. He looked a mess; his flannel was in tatters, and dark stains covered the back of it. Barley could see how pale he was even from far away, and he hung limply as the cyclops lifted him out. Laurel buried her face into Barley’s shoulder, too nauseated to look. With an even greater horror, Barley realized what they were doing: marching him towards the cliff. With a shout, he leaped up and started to sprint towards them, Laurel close behind. It was a wild dash, the kind that hunted animals make to stay alive. He didn’t know what he was planning -- he just knew he had to get to his baby brother.  
As he passed the van, he saw a familiar stick sitting in the back. Barely slowing his run, he grabbed Ian’s staff and called to him, trying to warn him he was about to throw it. Ian’s eyes were so distant and unfocused, Barley knew he hadn’t processed his words. He tried to stifle his rage, disgust, fear, panic, and infinite other emotions, and he tossed Ian the staff.  
With a thin, gaunt hand, Ian snatched the stick from the air. In an alien, hoarse voice, he cried “Voltar thundasir!”, causing an explosion of yellow energy to emanate from the staff and knock his attackers over. Barley didn’t know if they were dead or merely unconscious, and he didn’t care, because at that moment, Ian swayed, buckled, and collapsed, toppling over the cliff’s edge.

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It was more instinct than decision on Ian’s part to cast the lightning spell. He didn’t even know if it had worked or not, because as soon as he performed the magic, he felt his last, vestigial depths of energy get used up. He closed his eyes, and he was falling, and everything was quiet.

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Barley caught him. Of course he had. He’d lunged over the edge and snagged Ian’s ankle, his mother grabbing the back of his own shirt behind him. He hurriedly pulled Ian back over the edge, and they sat cradling him, weeping with equal parts relief and terror. Laurel called an ambulance, then Officer Bronco. As they waited, Barley took a closer look at Ian, and felt like throwing up, or curling into a ball, or possibly both. His brother was as pale and gaunt as death, and he’d lost weight. An awful bruise bloomed across his face. Already very light, he now felt as insubstantial as a feather in Barley’s arms. He carefully tilted him to look at his back, and swore once he saw it. Angry red gashes matted with old, brown blood crisscrossed his entire back, and Barley could feel Ian trembling even while passed out.  
When the ambulance arrived, they all loaded in and rushed to the hospital.

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Ian remained in the hospital for a full week. It took him a day to even wake up, between all the lack of food, water, blood loss, and spell-casting. When he did wake up, it took him awhile to realize where he was, even with Barley and his mom right there. And after that, it took him a hile to start speaking. He tried to explain what had happened, but it came out more in sobs than coherent words. His family understood.

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After the police arrested the criminals, it took them that same week to even find where they had kept Ian, after he had told them he’d probably been underground somewhere. A few days out of the hospital, still weak, they’d driven him and his family back to Willowdale and led them down to a room they’d found below a maintenance building hidden behind a hill away from the rest of the college. It was the correct room. The hook was still there, the weird toilet, and the bloodstains. Ian couldn’t look. Neither could Barley, but he forced himself to anyways.

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Recovery was slow. Even out of the hospital, Ian still felt weak and ill, and the spells he attempted had either failed to work or caused him to pass out. He woke up frequently with night terrors, reliving those awful four days over and over and over. But things would’ve been worse if not for Barley. Barley -- who gently encouraged him to drink water. Barley -- who picked him up after the next spell gone awry. Barley -- who cradled him gently during his nightmares. Ian knew it would be a long while before he was fully okay -- he might never be the exact same elf -- but he knew that he would recover, and he knew his family would be there for him, every step onward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it. I know the ending isn't great; I'm really terrible at denouements. Feel free to comment, question, or review!

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: all characters property of Pixar Animation Studios


End file.
